


Père

by Popcornjones



Series: You Can Only Bond Once [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha/Omega, Angst, Character Death, Childhood, F/M, Growing Up, M/M, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 02:12:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15698028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popcornjones/pseuds/Popcornjones





	Père

Mycroft had been very close to his papa. Both of the brothers had.

Jean-Claude Vernet had different lessons for his boys. Mycroft, the eldest, he tried to teach the value of caring. The little Alpha had his mother’s sharp, strategic mind, that was clear early on. Whilst Mummy taught Mycroft to play chess and the principles of game theory, Jean-Claude taught him to laugh and to love beautiful things – flowers and poetry and dancing in the sunlit garden. He baked fancy French patisserie and Mycroft loved to watch his papa knead the dough and fold it around sheets of butter almost as much as he liked eating them. He was a serious little boy with a voracious mind. Jean-Claude told ‘mon grand homme’ it was his duty to use the great gift of his intelligence to make the world a better place. And then he’d tickle his little boy until they both collapsed laughing.

When Mycroft was seven, Jean-Claude gave birth to his second child and the Holmes family rejoiced that father and son were healthy. It had been a difficult pregnancy and Mycroft had missed his papa’s cheerful presence in Sherrinford’s gardens and kitchen.

Then genetic testing revealed what his sweet scent indicated: infant Sherlock was an Omega. Mycroft didn’t understand why the celebration for his new sibling became muted and strained. He didn’t understand why Mummy was upset. Sherlock was fascinating!

He helped Père care for the little mite, learning to swaddle him and watching Jean-Claude change his nappies with dramatic aplomb. Mycroft would carry his brother into the garden and dance with the tot as their papa pruned and weeded and tended the lettuce beds.

As Sherlock grew older, Mycroft noticed that Mummy had little interest in her younger son. He asked Jean-Claude why one day as his papa kneaded dough and Sherlock experimented on his arm peering at the drops of liquids he placed there through a magnifying glass.

“Obviously Sherlock has a good mind – he’s almost as smart as me! Why doesn’t Mummy do lessons with him?”

Jean-Claude had sighed deeply and smiled at his sons. Mycroft thought Père looked sad and it wasn’t good for his sweet and cheerful papa to look sad. “Sherlock is your responsibility, Mycroft. He will always be your responsibility – you have to keep him safe and happy. Mummy will let you see to his education, mon grand homme – do you think you can do that?”

Mycroft, with the bottomless confidence of a nine-year-old Alpha swore that he would. He took on Sherlock's education, as Mummy had taken on his, with his usual seriousness, reading to the wee Omega the same books Mummy had read him, teaching him his numbers and letters, and how to read English and French. 

Mycroft liked watching his little brother with their papa. Whilst Mummy required Mycroft wear a suit and stand tall beside her, Sherlock ran wild in the gardens, looking at insects and pond water through his magnifying glass and playing his little violin for the bugs. Jean-Claude would chase him round and round the rose bushes and Sherlock would run, screaming with delight until Père caught him and cuddled him close. Both of their scents were sweet – Père the comforting smell of castor sugar mixed with butter, like the patisseries he baked, and little Sherlock smelling of wild honey.

The older Mycroft became, the less time he had to spend with his papa. But he made the time for Sherlock. When Mycroft was sent to boarding school, he wrote long letters home to his little brother, detailing interesting experiments for Sherlock to try and asking him to report back the results. He sent books on the history of pirates, chemistry and the art of beekeeping. 

Sherlock had an inquisitive mind and the eidetic memory common in the Holmes clan – he was insatiable, much as Mycroft was himself, inhaling books. Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock was not even-tempered. He would become entirely engrossed in a project to the exclusion of everything else – eating, sleeping, talking... all fell to the wayside until Sherlock finished his project. 

Conversely, without a project that interested him, Sherlock became bored and stroppy, sawing discordantly on his violin, terrorising the staff and talking back to Père in ways that horrified Mycroft. He could never speak to his gentle papa that way!

But Jean-Claude encouraged his younger son’s spirit, laughing heartily at his outbursts and redirecting his curious mind to new puzzles. The kitchen acquired test tubes and petrie dishes, a laboratory quality microscope and boxes and boxes of slides. An entire table was dedicated to Sherlock’s experiments.

When Mycroft was fourteen and home for summer break, his papa became pregnant for a third time. 

Sherlock had a half-dissected frog on his table and he was peering through his microscope at the frog’s liver cells when he looked up. “Where’s papa!” He demanded in his piping voice. He was only just seven, a skinny boy with a tangled black mop of hair and shining eyes on his dirty face. "He's helping me make slides." The little Omega fairly vibrated with restless energy.

“Père doesn’t feel well.” Mycroft told him. He was reading a fascinating book about geopolitical politics before the first World War. He set it aside and began assisting his brother preparing slides of the frog's sectioned organs.

“Why not!?” Sherlock’s questions always sounded like demands.

“Papa’s going to have a baby.” Mycroft informed him. “We’re going to have a little brother or sister.”

“Oh.” Sherlock said. “Why!?”

“Mummy wants another heir. When there are two of us, we can split the work between us. We can advance our careers and the family more efficiently.” Mummy had spoken to Mycroft of her plans at length.

“There ARE two of us!” Sherlock pointed out, disgust at his brother’s stupidity dripping from his voice.

“Two Alphas.” Mycroft qualified. “You’re an Omega. You don’t count.”

“I do too count!” Sherlock shouted, outraged.

“That’s not what I meant, Sherlock. Omegas can’t represent their family. Like Père – he’s a Vernet, but he’s really a Holmes since he bonded with Mummy. When you grow up and bond, you’ll live with your bondmate. You won’t be a Holmes anymore.”

“Will to!!” The little boy shrieked.

“Well, yes, technically you’ll always be a Holmes. But it will be different when you bond.”

“What about when _you_ bond!” Sherlock asked-demanded. “What will you be!?”

“I’m an Alpha, Sherlock. Omegas bond with Alphas. When I bond, my Omega will come here and live with me, just like you’ll go live with your Alpha.”

“I’m not going to bond.” Sherlock declared. 

“You have to bond, Sherlock. Who will take care of you if you don’t?” Mycroft asked, quite reasonably he thought.

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me.” Sherlock said. “I can take care of myself.”

Mycroft laughed. “I bet you could.” He said.

Jean-Claude’s third pregnancy was even more difficult than his second had been. The foetus sapped his strength and he lost weight. Mycroft would help his papa down to his garden and lay a blanket over his lap and read whilst Père kipped in the sun and his brother screeched and ran around chasing gnats and beetles and examining bits of mud and generally making himself filthy.

“Come to me, mon abeille bourdonnant.” Jean-Claude would call out. Sherlock would scramble over and show Père what he’d discovered – a dripping handful of mosquito larvae, or the underside of a leaf with a spider on it, or perhaps a parasitic bug attached to another bug.

Jean-Claude cuddled the boy close, pressing his nose against his neck and inhaling the healthy honey scent. Sherlock would melt into him, cuddling up with his papa and laying his curly mop on his chest. They looked so sweet together, Mycroft thought, smiling. He was glad they had each other.

Mycroft returned to school in September. He continued writing his brother. He received long, rambling letters back, smudged with various colours and thicknesses in the shape of Sherlock’s fingerprints. They were more erratic than usual, going off on tangents and detailing grievances.

In late October, Mycroft received a letter from Père. It was shorter than his papa's letters usually were – Père's missives were filled with news from the household and the village, updates on Sherlock and his projects, little drawings of Père's flowers, philosophical discussions and bits of poetry. They were warm and reminded Mycroft of home. This letter was different, he could tell just holding it. And it was not accompanied by a box of freshly baked macarons as Père’s letters almost always were. 

 

Mycroft, 

My apologies for not sending you macarons. I have not been in the kitchen much since the doctor put me on bed rest, and could not bear to send you stale biscuits. I just wanted to write to tell you that I am so proud of you. You have become such an accomplished and thoughtful young man. I can still see mon grand homme in you, mon grand homme who danced in the garden and loved to help me bake. You have transitioned to adulthood with such grace, anyone who did not know you intimately would have thought you felt none of the effects. I was so grateful that you had Mummy to guide you through the changes.

I write to you today to beg a favour. This is not something that you have ever needed to know, but presentation is not pleasant for Omegas. It is very different from what Alphas experience. This isn’t just your Papa being dramatic, a first heat is physically painful and emotionally devastating. It’s terrifying when one’s body changes so quickly. I have enclosed a medical tract on the subject that I find to be in keeping with my own experience.

I was blessed to have my lovely grandmère with me when I presented. It is not hyperbole when I say that I do not know how I would have survived without her. I hope to be with Sherlock when he presents. But I must be realistic. The chances that I will survive seven years after this pregnancy are slim. 

I pray that your new sister – she is an Alpha girl, we’ve had the testing done in utero – is healthy and strong. I pray that she will thrive and be the sibling that you and Mummy have wanted. For myself, I pray only for peace.

Now, Mycroft, my son, is the favour I would ask of you. Sherlock is a special child – not because he is an Omega, because of his inquisitive nature, scientific mind and great capacity for joy. You, more than anyone, Mycroft, understand how his mind works – you are so much alike in that way, both so intelligent, both gifted in seeing the small things and how they make the whole. You both see the patterns. You, Mycroft, see how tugging here or there will change the whole in your favour. And, I pray, you will tug them in Sherlock’s favour as well. 

For I fear that without me, there will be no one to indulge Sherlock’s experiments, no one to advocate for the education a mind as splendid as his deserves. I despair that a fluke of biology will stunt his intellectual growth. He has so much to give to the world beyond fertility. I beg, Mycroft, that you be his advocate, that you not conflate the difficulty of his presentation with weakness, or as a signal that his education should be ended. Sherlock is not cut out to be a homemaker and any attempt to force him into that role is doomed to failure – and to crush his remarkable spirit.

Now, my son, I will tell you something that I have never told anyone. I thought to be a scientist when I was young. I read my sisters’ textbooks and stole their equipment. I loved maths and physics. But it was not considered proper that someone of my gender should study the sciences. It would have been a waste of resources as everyone knew Omegas are homemakers. I love to bake because baking is applied chemistry. You will remember your first lessons in chemistry were in my kitchen.

Sherlock is more delicate than I was, and much more special. He will not thrive as I have if he is denied stimulation of his great intellect. I put it to you, Mycroft, it is your responsibility as your brother’s protector and Mummy’s right hand, to ensure he thrives.

When the time comes for him to bond, choose carefully. Try to choose someone who values what he is, not what they think Omegas should be. 

I am sorry to put this burden on you, mon grand homme. I know you are strong enough to shoulder it along with all your other burdens, but it does not make me happy to add to your load. Please know how much I love you and how proud you make me every day. 

Tout mon amour,  
Père

 

Mycroft, at fourteen, had not considered that Père might not survive this pregnancy. It made his blood run cold to even consider it. What would Sherrinford be like without warm and cheerful Père? Mycroft could not imagine! It made him sad to the bone.

It occurred to Mycroft for the first time, that Père should not have conceived a third child. He knew both he and Sherlock had been planned. This child was planned as well: Mummy had wanted a second Alpha and that was more important than her mate’s life.

For a few minutes, Mycroft hated Mummy. But he was too much his mother’s creature to resist her logic for long. It _would_ be better for the family if there were two Alphas. Mycroft wouldn’t have to shoulder all the burdens alone. But still...

Père didn’t need to tell Mycroft that it would be worse for Sherlock without his papa. He was only seven! And they spent so much of their time together. God knows Mummy hadn’t concerned herself overmuch with her second son’s wellbeing. For the first time, Mycroft realised that it _hadn't_ been his responsibility to educate his brother as Mummy had educated him. Mummy had neglected Sherlock shockingly – only because of his gender. 

Mycroft resolved to do right by his brother – not just to honour Père’s wishes, but because his brother deserved better than he’d got.

Mycroft didn’t write Mummy for permission to leave school to return to Sherrinford. He simply did it. He sat with Père, who was on bedrest, and read aloud from the poetry books Père had read to him as a child. He kissed his papa and told him he loved him and promised to do his very best for his little brother.

When Mummy asked him why he thought shirking his education was a good idea, Mycroft looked her in the eye and said, “Do we really need a second Alpha more than this family needs Père?” Then he had gone tramping through the garden in search of Sherlock.

He found his brother laying on his belly in a pile of damp leaves, taking soil samples. He’d been at it for quite a while, judging by his filthiness and the shivering blue-ness of his lips. Mycroft silently took him indoors and helped him make slides of all his samples. Then they went together to Père’s room and Mycroft saw his papa look truly happy again when the little boy curled up next to him and melted into his arms, their sweet Omega scents mingling.

Père died in childbirth three weeks later. Mycroft’s sister, Eurus, the much-anticipated Alpha, survived her papa by 43 minutes before she too expired.

The Holmes family had separate funerals. A large one with mourners from all branches of the Holmes family for Eurus. Mycroft and his cousins were pallbearers, carrying her small coffin into the great church. The little Alpha was buried under a statue of a sword-bearing angel in the grand family plot between her grandmother, Violet Holmes and her great-uncle, Siger Holmes.

Père was buried a week later. The ceremony was private, attended only by Mummy, members of their household staff, Mycroft and Sherlock, the little boy clinging to his older brother’s hand. Père was put to rest in a different family plot, a smaller one behind the house reserved for those souls who had bonded themselves to this great house. His grave was marked only by a rosebush, as were the other nameless Omegas buried there. Jean-Claude Vernet had been 33 when he died.

After the funeral, Mycroft joined Mummy in the library. She had been bitterly disappointed that Eurus hadn’t lived. But she was changed in some deeper way by the loss of her bondmate.

“Caring isn't an advantage." She told her son. "Not normally. But you’ll care for your mate, Mycroft, as I cared for your papa. You’ll see when you’re bonded, you can’t _help_ but care for your mate." She sighed, a sound Mycroft had never heard. "And that’s the way it should be. A strong bond between Alpha and Omega is nature’s way of producing healthy children, propagating the species. But you should wait until you’re older to bond, Mycroft. I don’t want you to romanticise it. It’s science, pure and simple.”

After Père passed, Sherlock’s sunny disposition darkened. Mycroft never again saw him dance in the garden and he rarely saw him smile. Every time he came home from school, Sherlock seemed to be thinner and grayer and more pinched, throwing tantrums and spending more and more time in his room playing his little violin. Mycroft took it upon himself to replace Sherlock’s Beta nanny with a cheerful man who spoke French and insisted that his brother eat, found another young Beta to tutor Sherlock in Chemistry and Physics and another to tutor him in maths. He continued writing long letters to his brother weekly.

Sherlock’s presentation took place when Mycroft was 21 and finishing graduate school. He’d been his brother’s official guardian for three years by then, so Sherlock’s school called him when his brother developed a fever and body aches.

Mycroft dropped everything and took his brother home to Sherrinford. He sent Mummy to France and hired three specialist Beta nurses and an old Omega to attend Sherlock through his first heat and then let the old Omega shoo him out of the way. He spent the next week in the library, hovering uselessly, getting regular updates from the head nurse. Sometimes he could hear his brother screaming in pain.

After his presentation, the boarding school Mycroft had convinced to take Sherlock needed another round of (expensive) convincing. It didn’t help that his brother scorned the other boys and skived his classes, haunting the science labs day and night and, when the science professors threw him out, the music practice rooms.

Sherlock outgrew the college by the time he turned 16, surpassing his professors' knowledge and abilities. Mycroft ensured that Sherlock read chemistry at Cambridge, the first Omega ever to study in that vaunted institution.

Sherlock was difficult – moody and turbulent and Mycroft worried about his brother. He looked so much like Père, or he would have if he'd had their papa's warm, patient nature. Père had been handsome, but the same features on his brother's face were sharp and awkward. Sherlock went out of his way to alienate everyone he met, Alpha and Beta alike. He had no friends and insisted he did not want any. Alphas were interested in him, of course, but Sherlock avoided them. He chafed against Mycroft's concern. He took up smoking and raged when Mycroft cut his allowance.

Mycroft hired a Beta to keep tabs on his little brother. Victor Trevor trailed Sherlock around everywhere, making no secret of his mission – nor of is admiration. Over time, Sherlock accepted his presence grudgingly, talking to him, ignoring him, abusing him and dodging him as the mood struck.

Mycroft despaired of ever finding an Alpha to suit his difficult Omega brother. Père had been right – Sherlock was not cut out to be an Omega. He drowned himself in scent suppressant, smoked like a chimney, was vicious to Alphas with the temerity to court him, and had an alarming interest in murder. All very un-Omegalike.

When his brother began haunting New Scotland Yard, Mycroft bribed a Beta D.I. to humour him. Inspector Gregson, to both of their surprise, reported back that Sherlock was, despite being a complete bastard, uniquely helpful when it came to solving difficult cases. Mycroft paid him more to ignore his brother's irritating personality traits and call him in whenever a tricky case presented itself.

The same month that Sherlock officially solved his first murder, Mycroft met James Moriarty, a brilliant young mathematician. Mycroft first thought was of Père’s letter. 

He befriended the young Alpha slowly. Moriarty was in graduate school at that time, writing a dissertation of stunning genius. His logic and his maths were flawless, a thing of beauty to the few people who could understand it. 

A thorough background check turned up nothing suspicious. Moriarty was originally from Ireland. His mother died when he was young, and his father brought him to Britain. He stood out in school for his brilliance but was otherwise quiet. He played cricket at a middling level. Never in trouble. Nothing suspicious. No communist ties. He vacationed in Spain. He voted Labour but was not passionate about politics.

His health was excellent. He worked out – swam three days a week and did resistance training two. His cholesterol was a bit high, but that ran in his family and he controlled it through diet. His mother had died of cancer, but not a hereditary sort. 

His credit check was unremarkable. He was wealthy – he hadn't come from money, but he'd invested well. And he knew people – economics was maths, after all, Moriarty had made a number of connections in the business world. Mycroft would be more than willing to put him at the head of one of the family businesses.

Mycroft had him followed day and night for six months. The report he received said that though he was charming and personable, he seemed lonely. He had little time for a social life and few friends, but he dated a Beta man casually for several months. Moriarty was a considerate boyfriend and a tender lover. He did not cheat on the boyfriend. After they broke up, he had two casual hookups, both with the same Alpha man. He did not take drugs. He drank socially but never to excess. He liked dancing but did it poorly. He did not care for theatre or cinema. The only dirt they’d picked up on him was that he didn’t like the neighbor’s dog – it was yappy and the neighbor didn’t clean up after it well – and there had been a shouting match. But the neighbor moved soon after the incident, so that solved the problem.

James Moriarty never put a foot wrong.

Fourteen months after meeting him, Mycroft told James Moriarty about Sherlock, how special he was and how he needed a bondmate that could appreciate and nurture his unique intellect.

Moriarty was cautious. They spoke at length about Alpha/Omega dynamics, the outdated Omega laws and bondmates’ responsibilities to each other. Jim admitted that he’d never thought about having children. Mycroft told him about Père, how wonderful a father he was and how avoidable his death had been.

Jim had said, "He sounds like a wonderful man. I wish I could have met him."

And he said, “I consider my contribution to mathematics to be my legacy. I don’t feel the need to sire a bunch of kids. Maybe one if my partner wanted one, but not more.”

And, "My grandmother was an Omega. I loved visiting her more than anything when I was a child. She smelled like bon-bons and she taught me algebra at the kitchen table when I was just a wee thing."

Mycroft smiled and nodded and asked Jim if he’d like to meet Mummy.

Looking at the busted down door of John Watson’s flat and the remains of the flash-bombs, Mycroft wondered for the thousandth time since he’d watched the grainy video of the riot, who James Moriarty really was.

When he’d left Sherrinford, Moriarty had disappeared into the ether – the James Moriarty he’d investigated and courted was a sham. Mycroft had concluded that 'James Moriarty' had been invented expressly for Mycroft. Moriarty had played to his weakness, showing him exactly what he wanted to see. His aim all along must have been Sherlock.

And now his Omega brother, whom he had sworn to protect, had being kidnapped by this fraud, this villain, that he, Mycroft Holmes, had introduced. 

Why hadn’t it occurred to him, when Sherlock had insisted that James Moriarty wasn't what he seemed, that Sherlock wasn't just being difficult? 

Why hadn't he listened to his brother?


End file.
